But no one ever said something about being lucky when they found me
I wasn't the girl made of metaphors
or pastoral prose
A burst of light draped in gloss radiance
Fragile, glistening in the humid lawn
With good-natured lifeblood interposed between my flaws.
My bones are armoured
Adamant with inured fractures
In the habit of hard bitten experiences,
My neck is self-willed with an impetus that doesn't know of discipline;
Stipulated might stifles my flames;
when all there is to me is a searing
That sometimes beats to burn outside the bourns of my heart;
hurts the hands that touch me gently
Loving gazes develop a wrinkle in their regard
Disavow of the dove they ounce conceived of this winged ophidian
February 4, 2023